I write to you at oh-dark-thirty
buzzed from coffee and from having slept
only three hours. Somnolus interrupticus.

We missed you last night at the Robin’s Nest
(you needed rest after your own poor sleep)!
I read my poem about Café Zaragoza:

Dr. Jones, of dark beret and fading memory,

delivering Akhmatova in faultless Russian.

This afternoon, I have my lunch with Edward
after which I might be slightly sozzled,
not quite shipshape for Friday services.

I'd broadcast this to the compass-pointed winds

and to the hundred thousand cable-networks:
I have a friend whose eyes are beautiful.